children of my own, how could I have wished this on someone else’s kids?
I later spent hundreds of hours with psychologists over many years trying to explain away, or somehow justify, my thinking. I’m not sure I’ll ever come to understand some of my unsavoury thoughts and emotions, but one day, I might learn to live with them.
Heading back to the fire station, it was dark and quiet in the back of the truck. With the windows down the night air cooled our sweat-soaked shirts as our truck meandered peacefully through the darkened streets of Macquarie Fields. No sirens or flashing lights. Our homeward bound trip was decidedly less frantic than our earlier run to the railway station. I stared deep into the moonless sky and tried to make sense of it all. The silence had an eeriness which I found disturbing. No discussions, no debriefing or brigade banter – just silence.
Perhaps they were all thinking the same as I was:
Another successful body retrieval; another story for the pub tomorrow and another nightmare lodged deep in the back of my brain. I need to stay strong.
~
Unlike fires, adrenaline is our enemy during rescue incidents. Having every nerve-ending spark into life while blood speeds through our veins, energising extremities, widening pupils and fine-tuning ear drums is ideal if we’re running from a lion, or in our case, kicking down doors, rushing into blazing buildings or dragging heavy water-charged hoses through burning scrub. Rescues are different. Sometimes it's like sewing on a button during a landslide. Making tiny incremental adjustments to tools and equipment, developing extrication plans for the safe removal of the victim and trying to concentrate on intricate, delicate and complicated rescue procedures is challenging enough without the intrusive behaviour of our thrashing, screaming hyper-activated brain. It’s a real challenge for firefighters. Remaining calm and grounded while your brain tries to switch into fight-or-flight mode is counter-intuitive and when repeated over and over, year after year, can have dire psychological consequences.
Even back then I knew, eventually, something had to give. I just didn’t know what to do about it. During that era, for me, male bravado trumped common sense every time. Very little help was available in the way of counselling and the culture of the times ensured that seeking assistance would be seen as a sign of weakness. I was just too embarrassed to cry for help.
A few days later, a couple of cops from the police station next door paid a visit to our station. They filled us in over a cup of tea in the mess room.
‘The kid under the train was a 15-year-old boy, who, for years, had been the victim of bullying.’
It seemed like all flexible thinking had abandoned him and he chose death over the life he had. Today I have a better understanding of how he must have felt. At that time, I remember thinking …
Where was his support? Where were his parents?
How could he let things get to that point? Why didn’t he just get help?
I could never do what he did.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten Pound Tourists
I was born in Scotland and, although very young when my family immigrated to Australia, I can still recall events, places, feelings and smells like it was yesterday. I’m not sure if it’s because my parents continually spoke of ‘home’or if it was such an exciting upheaval in my short life that remembering that period is easy for me. I certainly don’t want to forget where I came from so maybe my subconscious forces me to remember.
In Scotland, we lived in Letham, a small rural village in the county of Angus. My parents rented a tiny council house at 49 Dundee Road. At the time, Letham had a population of 800 and that included the surrounding farmers and their families. Today I believe it’s closer to 2000. Our home was a typical two-bedroom, two-storey flat with an open coal fire for the harsh Scottish winters, living room, a tiny kitchen and not much else. Although the house was small, to my eyes, during our final year there when I was four years old and my sister, Jennifer, was five, it seemed huge.
Nursery rhymes, music, warm fires and the aromas of simmering porridge and sweet homemade jam fills my head when I think of our Letham home. I recall open fields behind our house where giant sheep roamed freely. I was terrified when on occasion they would venture up to our back fence. When you’re four years old, the world is full of giants.
Days spent camped at the local farm while Mum picked tatties (potatoes) infuses my mind with vivid memories of stinging nettles, creepy-looking jackdaws and the smells of tarpaulin and freshly ploughed earth.
My father, Wallace (Wal), was from a large family. His mother gave birth to twelve children, although four died at a young age, including twins who passed away a few days after their birth. I never knew Dad’s father, George Bruce, who passed away in 1945 but I do have a few vague memories of my granny, Eliza Bruce, who was still alive when we left for Australia. In comparison, my mother’s family was quite small. She was born Elizabeth Gray, but everybody knew her as Betty. She had only one sister, Sheena, who was quite a bit younger than Mum.
Letham had a central village square consisting of a handful of shops and, of course, a couple of pubs, the Commercial and the Letham Hotel. To earn extra money my father would tend bar at the Commercial on Saturday nights.
He liked a drink, a singsong and a chinwag and both the hotels were within walking distance from anywhere in the village, including our house.
The nearest town was Forfar, which we would occasionally visit when my father could borrow a truck from his work. Very few people owned cars in our village so you either caught the bus or walked. Our family was one of the lucky ones. At that time, Dad worked in the furniture removal business and quite often he was able to borrow the boss’s truck on a Sunday. All four of us crammed into the cab – no seatbelts, no heater and no worries. If the weather permitted, he would occasionally take us to the seaside at Arbroath or Montrose. Compared to Australian beaches, it had a different look to it, as sand seemed to be non-existent. I remember stumbling over metre after metre of pebbles just to reach the water’s edge.
Although we were working class and probably considered quite poor, we never wanted for food. Living in a rural area had its advantages. The local farms, particularly the potato farms, could always provide for the villagers. When I was very young, one of the few things I would eat was a delicious Scottish dish called ‘stovies’. It was basically potatoes half boiled , half fried in a large pot with oil, onions and maybe a little ‘munce’ (minced meat) if you had any. My sister, Jenny, and I would fight over the burnt onions left on the bottom of the stovie pot. It was a staple in my house for years. Even when I married and left home, I loved visiting my parents for a huge plate of Mum’s stovies.
One of my strongest memories of Scotland is how cold it was and how I hated putting on layers of clothing only to take them off five minutes later when we arrived at our destination. To a small child, all this did was interrupt playtime. An enjoyable winter recollection that stayed with me all these years is when Mum dragged me down to the local shops on a sled as the snow was too deep for me to walk. I can still feel the icy wind on my face though my body was toasty and warm. My sister was in her first year at school so it was just Mum and me, and the family had to eat. Although it was hard work for my mother, it was great fun for an adventurous four year old.
Enjoyable as that was, I think even then I knew there must be better places to play. My Uncle's
